An Old Woman Chops Wood

Whir, crack. The axe, slightly angled, hits the far side of the check. The pieces tumble.

Damn the check in this pine. Twisted. Need larch. Pure and clear. Milky as a babe’s skin. No larch this year.

Whir, crack. The axe cuts a thin, ragged pine strip, readying the hatchet to bring ragged kindling.

Beautiful larch. Pale gold in Fall, bright green as Eden in Spring. Nobody to fall it now. No larch this year.

Whir, crack. The axe falls.